Our columnist investigates the Danish health system and gets more than she
bargained for.

A large, pink man wearing a medallion seizes my hand in his and shakes it, vigorously.

“My name is Troellllls!” he booms, as I take in the Viking moustache and ringlets of blonde chest hair, glistening in the spring sunlight. If you’re picturing a Nordic ‘adult entertainment’ actor from the 1970s, you’re not far off. His doctors’ coat hangs open and his shirt has been undone a good three buttons more than might have been prudent. “So, you’re broken, right?”

Going to hospital in a country where you don’t speak the language isn’t for the faint-hearted. Despite two months’ worth of lessons, my Danish doesn’t extend much beyond “excuse me”, “thank you” and “the time is quarter past two”. Conducting a conversation about my medical history with a man whose bedside manner makes Ray Winstone look wet takes all my powers of comprehension; Google Translate and charades.

Once we’ve established what’s wrong with me (don’t worry, I’m still standing), he is clear, no-nonsense and efficient. So much so, that I can forgive him the porn star look. After a consultation, I’m shown to a waiting room and asked to sit tight until a nurse comes.

She nods towards a giant glass-fronted fridge in the corner of the room, well-stocked and emblazoned with smiley faces (the Danes love an emoticon). On it, a notice reads ‘Sprit venligst dine haender inden du tager mad og drikke!’ – or ‘use hand sanitiser before taking food or drink!’

“We’re out of cheese sandwiches, but the ham is good”.

It’s 10am - I’m in a waiting room in an outpatient’s department; I wasn’t expecting snacks. Feeling hot under the gaze of the other patients, all noshing down furiously, I help myself to a carton of apple juice and wonder what on earth’s going on.

The nurse takes me into her office to let me know that she won’t have the medicine I need in stock until tomorrow.

“OK, thanks. I’ll come back in the morning,” I sigh, contemplating another three-hour round trip.

“Don’t you live quite far from the hospital?” she asks.

“Yes: yes I do,” I reply. My new-ish home of Toy-Town-On-Sea consists mainly of me, my dog, a couple of boats and a woman called Karen who runs an honesty box for fruit and veg. Medical facilities are minimal.

“Ah, in that case, I’ll send it to you, first class, for tomorrow,” says the nurse.

“Really?” I never had this sort of treatment in London. Toto, we’re not in SW9 anymore… “ Shall I pay you now?” I ask.

“No, no, it’s fine,” she waves her hand to dismiss the idea. “You just go home and relax. Take a yoghurt!”

Home-delivery, help with my prescriptions, decent service and free dairy products? Now that’s service.

Danes have a public health system like the NHS, but with patient information stored on an ID card that also covers tax, benefits, personal information and even library lending (Gordon Brown must be green with envy).

With the fat tax abolished last year, plans for a similar levy on sugar scrapped, and booze cruises to Germany now a regular occurrence, it seems the once famously healthy nation may be picking up some bad habits.

When I ask Danes how they feel about their nation’s health, there is some generalised shrugging. “Danes don’t go to the doctor unless it’s entirely necessary,” one tells me. “You get a cold? You get on with it. You’ve got a temperature of 104? Quit whining,” says another.

It’s not even as though you can self-medicate in Denmark - many of the over-the-counter drugs we rely on in the UK just aren’t available here (see Lemsip: Why I’m having it smuggled into Denmark). “On the rare occasion that a Dane goes to their doctor or to hospital, it means things are really bad,” my new lay-medical guru tells me: “And then…well, then, you deserve a free yoghurt.”

Helen Russell is a British journalist who lives in Denmark and writes about Scandinavia. Follow her on Twitter @MsHelenRussell. Read the rest of our expat guest columns here.